


Marks On Your Soul

by rawrkinjd



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Requited Love, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: In a world where love is something that grows over time and leaves an eternal mark, Jaskier is a tapestry of unrequited yearning, but has come to terms with his lot in life…A small dedication to the brilliantround_robin.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 85
Kudos: 537





	Marks On Your Soul

* * *

Soulmates don’t exist.

_No. That’s not strictly true. But it’s worse than that, isn’t it?_

Jaskier gazes into the mirror at the tapestry of images on his torso.

In a world where everyone you fall in love with—meet, get to know, fall and finally yearn for—leaves a mark, Jaskier’s body is a tale of unrequited love. On his shoulder, a small filly in red, tossing her beautiful mane as legs arc as if she’s about to prance across his back, the daughter of a stableman that he courted in his youth. On his chest an eclectic mess of different animals, symbols, objects—a lyre for Valdo, a horseshoe for a blacksmith in Vizima, a set of vines for a florist in Cintra—and his back the same.

Jaskier has fallen many times. He has allowed people to reach into him and touch his soul, leaving their mark on him, an indelible reminder of what they had what they could have had. Each person—each brander of his heart—has taken what they wanted, has basked in the warmth of his affection, and then cast him aside when better, more illustrious options presented themselves. The young filly married to a local farmer, Valdo wooed by the riches of court and avarice, the blacksmith to a baker’s daughter. The list went on.

After so many years of feeling passionate, earnest love for so many, Jaskier has come to a single, ineffaceable conclusion. He is unlovable. Not a single owner of the many pictures decorating his body has displayed a mark in return. He isn’t even sure what his mark looks like. Will it be a lute, perhaps? Or a quill? What shape will his soul render upon the body of another?

But who could possibly love him? A man that has had to develop a facade of superficiality; a verbose, outlandish caricature of his true self to survive a world that would crucify his real heart should he wear it so readily on his sleeve. So Jaskier survives. More marks appear—an oak tree, a golden chalice, a weaver’s loom—but he does his best to accept his lot in life. To love others, to give them comfort, and then to move on.

And then he meets a dark, brooding stranger in Posada.

He sees his opportunity to become more than a never-ending source of love for others. He could earn love for himself while improving this exquisite creature's chances so beaten by the world. And he will not fall in love because the Witcher is unlike anyone he has ever met; he’s different, too different, for Jaskier’s beaten heart to take a chance on.

After a rocky start, they begin travelling together. They fight, sleep, eat, carouse, talk, barter, laugh—sometimes shit—side by side. Those amber eyes, so keen and intelligent, hair of moonlight, slightly sharpened fangs that peek beneath his lip upon a rare smile. A man so ready to sacrifice himself for the good of others, to place his life, his heart, on the line time and again for so little payback. The Witcher is a reserved man. He talks very little in front of strangers—counts his words more fastidiously than a banker counts his coin—and manages his emotions like a miser. But Jaskier sees through it all. He sees the man beneath.

_Geralt._

Jaskier knows he’s falling in love before the white wolf appears upon the left side of his chest. It muscles its way in between a peacock and Valdo’s lyre, shoving them out of the way to curl over his heart as if it owns it.

It does.

He doesn’t even bother to ask. There will be no mark in return. The thought is too harrowing for him to consider, and for a while, he has to leave. The bard returns to his roots in Oxenfurt and spends a few months lecturing, but he misses the Path. Misses his sarcasm, his sass, his rare smiles that only Jaskier ever seems to notice, the rumbling laugh that only ever breaks free in the wilderness when Jaskier finds yet another horrendously disgusting aspect of nature to revile. He misses the gentle conversation under the starlight about the abstract and the profound; he misses… Geralt.

They meet again in Novigrad. Geralt’s collecting a hefty purse from a contract upon his arrival, offers him a rough arm around the shoulders in greeting and informs Jaskier he needs a rest before their travels continue. It’s an opportunity to stretch his long-dormant fingers and vocal cords, so, of course, Jaskier spends his time in the tavern as Geralt goes through his usual routine.

Jaskier plays a full set and returns to their shared room. He spots the bed—quite wide, a relief, Geralt does rather like to _sprawl_ —and then looks to his Witcher as water sloshes in a wide laundry basin. The sight is a familiar one. Geralt’s all lean musculature, pink scars and beautifully scattered body hair. There are two wolves on his chest that Jaskier often examines fondly; one black and petulant looking, the other brown, fluffy and rather kindly in appearance. Over the years, Jaskier has become rather fond of them. They’re Geralt’s first loves. His only loves.

But wait.

_Something’s different._

The bard spots it, and his breath catches in his throat. For a long moment, he can’t move, his feet rooted to the spot, and then suddenly, he’s surging forward. Geralt has a towel wrapped loosely about his waist by the time Jaskier reaches out with shaking fingers to touch those wolves.

For a new companion has joined them.

A fox with russet fur and bright blue eyes. In its mouth, it holds a lute by the fretboard. The petulant wolf looks rather irritated as the body of the damned instrument juts out over his chest, but the brown one is gazing down at their newest addition with fond exasperation. 

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes. He can’t breathe, let alone speak. 

Then warm, rough fingers slide over his and press his palm flat to Geralt’s chest. Jaskier can feel his heart beating hard and sure, like a bass drum guiding a band's rhythm. Apt, for Geralt has guided the rhythm of Jaskier’s life for many years now.

“When?” Jaskier rasps, tears brimming in his eyes.

“When you were gone, my heart ached,” Geralt murmurs in reply, “so it found a piece of you to hold.” That large hand remained over his, but another lifted to cup his cheek. Jaskier knows his lips are quivering, his neck flushing, his entire body shaking. Geralt’s touch grounds him, and he can breathe but for a moment because the next words that pass those soft, pale lips almost make his heart give in. “I love you, Jaskier.”

Their lips meet, and Jaskier feels whole.

They both do.

The white wolf and his bard.

* * *


End file.
